


Carried for Years

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2016 [119]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Fusion, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8681818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any, any, a letter arrives years after it was sent."Evan Lorne delivers letters after the War.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fusion with Ep 4 of Our World War.

After three months and who knew how many hundreds of miles, this was the last one. And the most important one. Evan stood on the doorstep in uniform and took a deep breath. Raised his fist to knock. Hesitated.  
  
For so many months, he'd carried an image in his head of what this woman looked like, what her home looked like. And now he was - afraid. Of the reality. How it would pale in comparison to his memory, the memory that had carried him across untold foreign lands and skies, sustained him through exhaustion and hunger and thirst, the trenches and mud and cold, the burning heat and screaming machine gun fire of a tank.

 

*

_"What's this, then?" Woeste's tone was full of disdain. He started to recite aloud, "'I have no name or words for where I am as I put pen to paper for you, because when you are absent the world does not matter, but know this: wherever my body may be, my heart is with you.'"_  
  
_Evan's throat closed. He was on his feet in an instant. "Give that back."_  
  
_Woeste waggled the piece of paper out of Evan's reach, and Evan cursed his height._  
  
_"First rule of being on a tank crew," Woeste said, face twisted into a sneer, "don't go leaving your love letters around if you don't want anyone to read them."_  
  
_Edwards held his hand out, and Woeste surrendered the letter to him grudgingly. Edwards folded it along its old and well-worn creases and handed it back to Evan, who swallowed hard and tucked it into his breast pocket._  
  
_"Thank you, sir."_  
  
_"Be more careful with your things, Lorne."_  
  
_"Yes, sir."_  
  
_"She sounds like a good woman, your wife."_  
  
_Evan ran his thumb over his empty ring finger and bobbed his head. "She is, sir."_

 

*

Evan had the uncanny sense that people were staring at him. It was probably just his imagination, or maybe his uniform, but he'd had that feeling before, and it was usually followed by Germans and gunfire.  
  
So Evan knocked.  
  
The woman who answered the door wore a simple house dress, but she was beautiful. Golden curls, blue eyes, high cheekbones. More beautiful than the image Evan had carried with him for so long.  
  
"Yes?" She took in his uniform, confused.  
  
Evan cast a hunted look over his shoulder. "I'm sorry to intrude, ma'am. I'm looking for Meredith."  
  
The woman's expression was wary, but she said, "Please, do come in."  
  
She had a Scottish accent, even down in London, which surprised Evan but probably shouldn't have. The letter had been addressed to Meredith McKay, after all.  
  
"Thank you." Evan doffed his cover and followed her into the house. It was sparse and simply furnished, not at all like the image he'd carried, and he swallowed back a comment about it, because it would make no sense to her. The most prominent feature was the overflowing bookcase. That fit with the image he'd carried some.  
  
"Just a moment - I shall fetch Meredith for you."  
  
The woman turned and hurried up the stairs before Evan could speak. He was confused. She wasn't Meredith? Evan's grip on his cover turned white-knuckled, and he swallowed hard.  
  
He heard rapid footsteps and the woman saying, "I don't know. He's wearing an Army uniform and he asked for you."  
  
Evan straightened up and cleared his throat, reached into his pocket, and froze.  
  
The man who was following the woman down the stairs had her blue eyes and high cheekbones and strong jaw. Her brother, perhaps. His hair was darker gold, curled as well.  
  
"I'm Meredith," he said. He looked Evan up and down with barely-disguised disdain and impatience. "I was in the middle of a very important series of calculations, and -"  
  
Evan tugged the folded paper out of his pocket, held it out. "This is for you."  
  
Meredith frowned and accepted it. "I don't have business with the Army." Then he paused. "Did you know John?"  
  
And like that, Evan had a name for him.

 

*

_"You're a good lad," Dixon said, clapping Evan on the shoulder._  
  
_A good number of the other men had moved along, eager to make it to the camp and have a day to rest and recuperate. Evan and a handful of the other infantrymen who were on their way to reassignment had hung back, picked up shovels, and pitched in to bury the dead._  
  
_Rows upon rows of men in uniforms had been laid out, with hastily-made white crosses laid over them to mark their graves. Evan had dug, and he'd lent his painter's hands to painting the crosses._  
  
_And finally it was done._  
  
_There was a chaplain on hand to bless each grave site before the soldiers were lowered into them. Evan took care to smooth down their uniforms and straighten their caps. They deserved to be buried with what dignity could be mustered._  
  
_He knelt to straighten another jacket and felt the crinkle of paper in a pocket. He paused, reached into the jacket, and drew out an envelope. It was addressed to a Meredith McKay in London. It hadn't been sealed or stamped._  
  
_Evan scanned it. And he knew. He'd written a letter just like it, to his mother and sister and grandmother._  
  
_"What is it?" Dixon asked._  
  
_Evan told him. "How many others d'you think there are?"_  
  
_Dixon shrugged. "You can have a look if you like."_  
  
_Evan did._

 

*

"No," Evan said.  
  
Meredith's brow furrowed.  
  
"I mean, I saw him." Evan took a deep breath. "I read it."  
  
And anger mixed with fear crossed Meredith's face.  
  
"Not to pry," Evan added hastily. "Just - those are a man's last words. He'd want them to go to his - his family. Not buried with him. At least, the letter I wrote like that - I would've wanted it to go home if it could."  
  
Meredith swallowed hard. "Well. In that case, thank you, sir."  
  
"It - kept me going." Evan wet his lips and forced himself to stop twisting his cap. "The letter. Knowing I had to make sure it got home."  
  
Meredith stared at him. "A single letter?"  
  
Not just one letter, but Evan didn't know how to explain. He fumbled for words, and Meredith rolled his eyes and began to unfold the letter.  
  
Paused when he saw the paper was burned below the first few lines.  
  
Evan said, "It wasn't like that when I found it. He - he didn't burn. There was a fire in my tank. Lost the envelope with your address on it. But he didn't burn. I'm sorry. That was all I could save."  
  
"Of course." Meredith swallowed hard. "Where are my manners? I haven't even offered you tea."  
  
"Meredith," the blonde woman began, "I can put the kettle on."  
  
But Meredith spun on his heel and headed for the kitchen.  
  
Evan didn't hear any of the usual banging about he knew from putting the kettle on.  
  
The blonde woman cast Evan an anxious look and then hurried into the kitchen. He'd almost forgotten her presence, but he followed. He'd caused enough heartbreak for one night. He'd excuse himself and go.  
  
Meredith was slumped over the kitchen sink, shoulders shaking in silent sobs.  
  
Evan swallowed down the lump in his throat, and he began to recite:  
  
_"I have no name or words for where I am as I put pen to paper for you, because when you are absent the world does not matter, but know this: wherever my body may be, my heart is with you."_  
  
The blonde woman, who'd hurried to Meredith's side, looked at him, then at Evan, and slipped silently out of the kitchen.  
  
_"I am standing in the circle of your arms, reveling in the warmth of your embrace, the softness of your kiss. I have just come in from the garage, and I know I smell of engines and oil. You have just finished your calculations for the day and you have adorable pencil smudges on your hands._  
  
_"I kiss your hands, my lips against your fingertips. While Jean and Caleb and Madison are out with friends, I have you all to myself. You play the piano with your clever hands, and I offer you my poor guitar-playing in return._  
  
_"We stand side by side in the kitchen, fumbling through the ritual of cooking. What we make is simple, but it is warm and filling, and I can smell coffee in your hair, and I know I am safe._

 _"You are my life and my soul. Your genius is the brightest star in my night sky, my Polaris, my way home. I am ever with you, in my fondest dreams. I love you, sweetest Meredith. I will see you, in dreams or in heaven or, God and the Devil willing, you will never read these words, and I will see you in the flesh."_  
  
Meredith turned to him, face red and wet.  
  
"I didn't mean to memorize it," Evan said. "I just read it so many times. I imagined - so many things. What this house would look like. What your children would look like."  
  
"Jean is my sister," Meredith said hoarsely. "Caleb is her husband, Madison her daughter." He leaned against the sink, arms crossed defensively over his chest. "So you didn't know John personally, then? Didn't fight alongside him?"  
  
Evan shook his head.  
  
"He was a good man. Stupidly brave. So intelligent. All that genius wasted on a gun and a uniform and a trench. We were going to change the world." Meredith scrubbed a hand over his face. "But there will be no notification letter for me, no widow's pension, nothing. But what you brought me. So thank you, though no doubt I'm not at all what you imagined, am I?"  
  
"I imagined you were beautiful," Evan said. "I was right about that."  
  
Meredith looked wary and uncertain, and Evan smiled gently.  
  
"It was an honor to meet you, Meredith McKay. I didn't know John as a man or a soldier, but I know he loved you, fiercely and beautifully, with enough poetry in him to inspire me to stay alive long enough to bring his final words to you."  
  
"John Sheppard," Meredith said. "He worked as a mechanic, but he was a gifted mathematician. He joined up because he'd heard they were recruiting men to fly, and he always wanted to fly." He laughed softly, brokenly. "He wasn't much of a poet in person. He wrote so rarely, and when he did, it was always brief. 'Still alive. Coffee here is foul. Miss you. Give my best to Jeannie and the rest.'"  
  
"He found poetry for you in the end." Evan turned to go, and Meredith said, hesitantly,  
  
"You think I'm beautiful?"  
  
Evan turned back to him, crossed the kitchen, and reached out, curled a hand along the line of his jaw. "Positively angelic," he said gravely.  
  
Meredith leaned into the caress briefly, then stepped back.  
  
"It was a pleasure to meet you," he said.  
  
Evan knew dismissal when he heard it. "The pleasure was all mine."  
  
He turned to go, and this time Meredith let him.  
  
He'd almost reached the door when the woman, presumably Jean, stopped him.  
  
"What's your name? When he comes to his senses, he will want a transcription of what you have in your memory."  
  
"I have your address," Evan said. "I'll send it."  
  
"But sir -"  
  
"As far as he is concerned, let me be the ghost of John Sheppard. Good evening, ma'am."

Evan ducked out of the house and into the street, and finally, finally, he could head home, free from the burdens of the letters he'd carried for years.


End file.
